


Willing to Wait

by sparkeythehamster



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Episode Related, Feelings left unspoken, Injured Bertie, M/M, POV First Person, Worried Jeeves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26687302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkeythehamster/pseuds/sparkeythehamster
Summary: My take on a missing scene from s03e06 after Bertie is struck twice over the head by Roderick Spode.I also have to confess that returning from the States had unsettled me. There is a certain level of freedom in New York, and without the pressures of class and judgement it is far too easy to indulge in various liberties. However, back in England the idea of sitting by your employer’s side to play the left or indeed righthand part of a new jazz piece, or spending time with him in a diner enjoying a spot of lunch, it was simply unheard of.Jeeves deal with the panic after he allows Bertie to become seriously injured during one of his schemes.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 21
Kudos: 98





	Willing to Wait

**Author's Note:**

> I've been doing a really big watch through of the Jeeves and Wooster episodes and making notes on the evolving relationship between Jeeves and Bertie, and honestly it is quite amazing to see their development as characters and the evolution of their relationship when you watch the episodes in order.

There had been a coolness in the flat between me and Mr. Wooster lasting exactly thirteen days.

A coolness that he was entirely unaware of, leaving me to simmer in frustration knowing full well that his slight meant so little to him that he had forgotten all about it.

Perhaps it was unkind of me to hold a grudge for so long against my employer, particularly as he so often forgave the situations I was responsible for placing him in. When I had first started working for Mr. Wooster I had mistaken his forgiving nature for naivety, but as time went on I quickly realised that if Mr. Wooster held a grudge against every man and woman in the country that had wronged him then he quickly would be without friend or kin. I therefore adjusted my parameters to recognise this trait as a simple and much needed survival technique. And he forgave me to. He forgave me for sending him cycling eighteen miles in the rain, he forgave me for all the plans I enacted without giving him notice, and most recently he forgave me for breaking up his engagement with Lady Florence Craye.

It was this latest forgiveness that had triggered our disagreement.

Unlike most young women that Mr. Wooster found himself engaged to, he did not appear entirely opposed to this union, despite the nervous air I could detect when he informed me of it.

While it is not my place to speak ill of any acquaintance of my employer, I am certainly at liberty to reflect upon those opinions within the restricted space of my own mind.

I found Florence Craye to be a proud woman who presented herself in an entirely unimaginative and self-righteous manner. Without a question or a doubt, she was entirely inappropriate for Mr. Wooster.

I also have to confess that returning from the States had unsettled me. There is a certain level of freedom in New York, and without the pressures of class and judgement it is far too easy to indulge in various liberties. However, back in England the idea of sitting by your employer’s side to play the left or indeed righthand part of a new jazz piece, or spending time with him in a diner enjoying a spot of lunch, it was simply unheard of.

None of this seemed to have shaken Mr. Wooster, which is why I was aware that I had to maintain my own guard with steadfast resolve. Servants and their masters, no matter how loyal or long they had been in service, were not friends.

But I had forgotten myself.

Mr. Wooster was furious when he learned that I had purposefully acted against his wishes and disrupted his engagement with Lady Florence. I had mistakenly assumed that he would listen to my explanation, but he cut through it with adamant vigour, and that was when the hard words fell.

_“I’m very grateful for your opinion. But I must say what I had in mind from you was an abject quivering apology. This is very sad Jeeves, but I’m going to have to think very seriously about your future!”_

The words had been hard and spoken in anger, and Mr. Wooster had apologised the moment he saw the sense in my judgement, but I couldn’t shake off the weight of them.

Mr. Wooster had only threatened to fire me on one prior occasion during our first week getting to know one another. It hadn’t bothered me; these sorts of things were bound to occur when a new valet and gentleman were in the process of getting used to each other. However, by this point I had been in the service of Mr. Wooster for nearly two years, and our stay in America had perhaps led me to believe he enjoyed my company as more than a simple servant. I felt now that I had been mistaken and that Mr. Wooster had just been swept up in the State-side excitement that young gentlemen were so vulnerable to.

He had dismissed my opinion in a way that demonstrated how little he thought of it, and then followed up this dismissal with the threat of severing our connection permanently.

He had apologised I tried to remind myself, but the events over the proceeding days just provoked my frustrations further.

The situation involving the leading figures of the revolutionary Red Dawn were almost a breaking point.

It had been Mr. Wooster’s idea for us to pose as friends rather than servant and master to avoid any unpleasantness from our uninvited houseguests. Keen to avoid any such a scene myself, I had agreed.

Sitting down and thinking about it in a sensible manner I know that it was childish of me take this insinuation so personally as I knew that Mr. Wooster had not intended to offend or behave in any manner other than that of a kind and considerate employer. Ordinarily I would have been able to shake it off but following so soon after the incident with Lady Florence, the suggestion from Mr. Wooster that we _pretend_ to be friends struck a nerve.

Perhaps I am not being entirely honest with myself about this situation. Our time in America had meant considerably more to me than I could ever allow to become known even to my nearest and dearest friends and family. I couldn’t have described the exact moment I realised it, but when I found myself reading the flourishing ‘x’ signed at the bottom of Mr. Wooster’s postcards while he was travelling, I remember my heart skipping a fateful beat.

His antics that had once frustrated me so much, were now endearing qualities I couldn’t help but watch with fondness. That was where the seedlings of my mistake had been planted. My priorities shifted from assisting Mr. Wooster for the sake of maintaining and securing my own position, to protecting and helping him for the simple and ridiculous reason that I loved him.

I never fooled myself for a moment into thinking that those feelings might be returned, but I at least felt secure in the knowledge that he looked on me fondly, and as a figure of permanence that he had come to rely on.

The old Jeeves would never have challenged Mr. Wooster over his feelings for Lady Florence with such recklessness, and he certainly would have thought nothing of the way Mr. Wooster’s arm had slipped so casually around his shoulders during dinner with the revolutionaries of the Red Dawn.

In that moment of panic and anguish I’d felt determined to resurrect the old Jeeves, the Jeeves who knew that the best way to handle Mr. Wooster was with firmness and sobriety. So that was the Jeeves I became again during our visit to Marsham Manor, falling into line with Lady Travers’ wishes that we steal a painting that was standing between her and the success of her magazine. She needed the approval of acclaimed author Cornelia Fothergill, and that painting was her bargaining chip.

The whole plan had gone horribly wrong, resulting in the wrong painting being destroyed, and Cornelia Fothergill’s father-in-law lying unconscious on Mr. Wooster’s bed. It was a disaster and dire action was required to put the situation to rights.

 _“If I might be permitted to make a suggestion Madam.”_ The words still echoed in my head. _“If the window were broken and both pictures removed, Mrs. Fothergill could, I think, be readily persuaded that miscreants had affected a burglarious entry, and that Mr. Wooster had valiantly attempted to protect her property. She would one feels, be grateful.”_

Everyone but Mr. Wooster had been on board with the plan, but that was hardly unexpected. Despite standing in the middle of this mess, he was the only individual present who would not benefit in some way from its success.

_“The details of the plan, sir, do demand that you be discovered lying stunned on the floor of the dining room.”_

There were other ways out of the predicament, I had already composed three alternative plans in the past ten minutes, but my subconscious desire to punish my employer for the imagined slight pushed itself to the forefront. I knew I would have no difficulty in persuading Mrs. Travers or the new Earl of Sidcup, in fact that glint in his Lordship’s eye should have been my first warning.

But the old Jeeves had once sent Mr. Wooster cycling through the rain, leaving him red-nosed and unwell for an entire week. In my addled state I was unable to distinguish any difference between the two plans. And as hardened as I was to the role I was playing, I did not even flinch when Lord Sidcup struck Mr. Wooster heavily from behind with the brass bedpan.

As I was helping to lay Mr. Wooster down on the floor of the dining room the thought did occur to me that I was doing something very wrong. I knew that Mr. Wooster would forgive me, just as he would forgive his aunt for her part in this scheme. I had watched countless people who claimed to care about Mr. Wooster take advantage of his kindness and inability to refuse them, and I had judged many of them heavily for it. But there I found myself, standing over his unconscious body with no fear of repercussions. At the time, this nagging thought was nothing more than a doubt, but reflecting on it now, a mere half an hour later, I feel entirely sick to my stomach.

There had been another upset in our plan. Mr. Wooster woke up, dazed, and confused while we were making our preparations to leave. Immediately I knew something was wrong, he was attempting to speak but nothing comprehensible left his lips, and the danger of the situation finally hit me. I knew I needed another plan, but before I could gather my thoughts I saw the galloping form of Lord Sidcup come sailing in from left field, expensive vase held aloft. I couldn’t stop him, not without compromising myself.

Unlike the first time Mr. Wooster was struck I felt the impact of this one recoil through me, shaking every nerve in my body and I cast a torn look between Mr. Wooster’s unmoving form and his Aunt, the offensive painting clutched tightly in my hand.

There was nothing I could do for Mr. Wooster in that moment that would have benefitted either of us. I had the stolen painting between my fingers if we were discovered in that moment then the consequences would have been severe. So, I left with the painting and every intention of destroying it.

For Mrs. Travers everything had gone according to plan.

To the Earl of Sidcup things had truly gone his way.

And even for the Fothergill family, the night had reached a satisfactory conclusion, as it transpired that none of them, not even the artist had liked the painting in question.

Even Miss. Madeline Bassett got to end the whole state of affairs cradling Mr. Wooster’s head to her chest and circling her fingers through his hair.

It took me ten minutes to convince Miss. Bassett that Mr. Wooster’s care was best left in my hands.

He was still confused and disorientated, blue eyes unfocused as I helped him to his feet, preferring to deliver my administrations in the privacy of his room. I felt his weight sagging under my shoulders and hesitated, unsure how best to proceed. The staircase of Marsham Manor was narrow, even for a man as slight as Mr. Wooster it was not possible for two individuals to ascend or descend the stairs side-by-side. Lord Sidcup had already left so we were unable to carry him between us as we had done when bringing him down the stairs; and throwing him over my shoulder might do further damage that I was eager to avoid.

“Sir?” I attempted to rouse him, aware that my fingers were clutching at the material of his shirt more tightly than would have normally been considered appropriate. He stirred a little, but there was no change to the dead weight of his body. “Sir.” I tried again, shifting him slightly, and that was when I saw the blood against the white collar of my shirt and the dark patches against the black cloth of my jacket.

“Sir!”

He was still conscious, but only barely. The only sign of this I had were the fingers locked around the lapel of my jacket. I didn’t dare to remove them, but I could feel the fear starting to overcome me. For the second time this month my own fool headedness had clouded my judgement, and this time I had put Mr. Wooster in serious danger.

With no other choice and all social decency forgotten I carefully tilted Mr. Wooster’s form, tucking one arm under his thighs and the other under his neck to keep his head supported. I carried him as quickly as I dared up the stairs to his room. His secure grip on my jacket was the only physical gesture that kept my mind tethered to the ground.

I remembered the moment I reached the top of the landing that Mr. Fothergill senior was already occupying Mr. Wooster’s bed. With only a moment of hesitation, I changed direction, heading up the next flight of stairs to the servants’ quarter where my own small room was located.

He mumbled something incomprehensible, the fingers on my lapel shifting, but his hold remained strong.

I was loathed to untangle his fingers as I laid him down on the bed, so shifted my jacket over my shoulders instead and lay it over him like a blanket. My shirt and jacket weren’t the only garments that had been stained with blood, Mr. Wooster’s own clothes were sodden, the back of his dress shirt a horrendous shade of crimson. There was only so much I could do alone; he needed a doctor.

Leaving him for just a few seconds I headed back to my door and leaned out, letting out a visible sigh of relief when I spotted one of the scullery maids who had emerged from her own room to see what all the noise was about.

“I need you to send for a doctor” I told her, “I fear Mr. Wooster may have a serious concussion.” I was grateful that she didn’t ask any questions and moved quickly, allowing me to return to my employer’s side.

I checked to ensure that he still had a firm hold of my jacket and took solace in his confused mumbling as it at least told me he was awake. I do not pretend to be a man of medicine, or indeed one who has anything more than a theoretical knowledge of its practises, but I do remember once reading that patients with concussion should be encouraged to stay awake at all times.

Touching my hand very tentatively to his head, I felt the sharp edge of the pottery brush against my fingers and realised that some of the small shards had embedded themselves into Mr. Wooster’s skull. Under the impression that removing them would do nothing to hinder Mr. Wooster’s recovery, I quickly withdrew to my draws and returned with a pair of tweezers.

“Mr. Wooster do you know where you are?”

Laying out my handkerchief on the bedside table I set about carefully extracting the first piece of pottery, placing the bloody piece down on the white cloth before moving on to the next.

Blue eyes opened and blinked at me in recognition before a sea of fog descended. He mumbled something that sounded a little like my name, but I was unable to confirm if that was just wishful thinking on my part, he certainly hadn’t answered my question.

I kept trying to encourage him to talk while I worked.

Pulling out a particularly nasty shard that had lodged itself quite deeply into his head I was overjoyed to hear the distinguished yelp of an “Ow!”

The bulk of the bleeding seemed to have stopped, I didn’t know if that was a negative or positive development, but I chose to hope it was the latter.

Feet were pounding up the stairs, but I only moved away from Mr. Wooster’s side by a few inches when the doctor entered. I was however forced, Reluctantly, to move aside to make space for him.

“What’s all this?” He motioned to the little pieces of bloody pottery laying on the table.

Realising that I hadn’t had time to come up with a story as to how Mr. Wooster had been so seriously injured, I simply replied that they were pieces of a vase that I had thought it best to remove. The doctor just tutted and didn’t ask any further questions.

I felt my heart rate quicken and an unpleasant sensation come over me when I saw the doctor frown.

“Can you tell me your name sir?”

Mr. Wooster mumbled again, eyes opening. He glanced around the room, pupils roaming the space that was no doubt unfamiliar to him until they settled on me. “Jeeves?”

I could have pushed my way to his side. The relief I felt when he recognised me was impossible to put into words and it consumed all of my attention, or at least it did, until the doctor cleared his throat, giving me an enquiring look. Confused for a moment I tilted my head, and then remembered the question Mr. Wooster had been asked.

“No. That’s my name” I informed him.

Mr. Wooster’s attention was still fixed on me, allowing me to recognise the clarity in his eyes.

“The doctor wishes to know your name sir” I explained to him.

His gaze flicked towards the doctor for a few brief moments before returning to me. “Bertie… Bertie Wooster…” He sounded a little unsure of himself and had given his abbreviated first name rather than give the full title of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, but it was a good first step. When the doctor looked at me this time, I nodded.

“Do you know where we are sir?” I spoke patiently, hoping that this increased awareness meant that Mr. Wooster’s condition was not as severe as I had feared.

This however, seemed to stump him. “I… Aunt Dahlia was here… so was Spode…which would seem to suggest either Totleigh Towers or Brinkley Court…” It pained me to see the distress in his eyes as he began to realise that his own memory was faulted. He made an attempt to sit up, but the doctor urged him to remain on the bed.

The doctor, however, did not seem at all concerned by my employer’s lack of awareness.

“Have you and Mr. Wooster been to Marsham Manor before?”

I shook my head, and this seemed to reassure the doctor further.

He pulled open his bag and produced a set of bandages and fastening tape.

“He has a mild fracture and a concussion that seems to have affected some of his short-term memory. He remembers, I assume correctly, who else is here with him in the house, it’s just some of the more recent details he can’t recall.”

Mr. Wooster was still looking at me, gritting his teeth as the doctor tightly wrapped the binding around his head. Sensing that he was looking for comfort of some kind I maintained the eye contact, keeping my gaze soft to reassure him that everything was, or soon would be, perfectly fine.

“It’s okay if he sleeps, but make sure that you or someone else wakes him every two hours to check on his condition. If you can’t wake him or his condition appears worse then send for me again.”

Although there was reassurance in his tone, the idea that we weren’t yet in the clear rattled me considerably.

I still thanked him for his assistance and had one of the other curious servants standing around in the hall escort him to the door. The owners of the house downstairs and their guests did not seem to have stirred and were most likely asleep and content in the knowledge that they had gotten their own way tonight.

“I have the distinct impression that something concerning treacle happened tonight Jeeves?” Mr. Wooster was still laying as the doctor had instructed, head tilted upwards slightly by the pillows propped against the headboard.

I nodded stiffly, inching closer to his side again. It felt wrong to have him sleep in his clothes, particularly clothes still stained so heavily in blood, but the doctor had been quite adamant about not allowing him to move, so I forced myself to bare it for tonight.

Once again it occurred to me how my own foolishness had brought about this whole sorry affair. I should never have suggested the plan, particularly with an animal like Lord Sidcup present. I should never have made Mr. Wooster steal the painting in the first place.

It was true that the more naïve me, the one who had first met Mr. Wooster and made such grand assumptions about him might have acted in this way, but that didn’t mean he was right.

“I’m sorry sir. I allowed things to get out of hand, I should never have permitted…” It was unprofessional of me to waver like this. A good man servant was stoic and unmoving even in the face of great adversity or peril. He faced each moment with unwavering loyalty and confidence. I repeated these words over in my head, but they didn’t make me feel better or adjust the truly pathetic state I found myself in.

Mr. Wooster shifted against the pillow and smiled kindly. “Rarement ils sont grands vis-a-vis de leur valets-de-chambre.” His French accent, as always, was terrible, but the words spoken were sound and correct.

 _Rarely do they appear great before their valets_ , a quote first applied by Jean de la Bruyere.

Mr. Wooster often forgot the end of his quotes, so I couldn’t help but be impressed that even in his current state he was able to recall a full one in the original French.

“It’s okay Jeeves” he reassured me with that same kind smile. “We’ll head back to London tomorrow and put this damned place behind us… wherever it is we are…” he still seemed unsure on this fact and I tried to not let it bother me.

But it was more than this, it was as if one admission of guilt was slowly starting to drag the others from me.

“Lady Florence sir…”

Mr. Wooster blinked at me looking utterly bewildered. “Lady Florence? Don’t tell me she’s here to, I don’t remember…”

I shook my head quickly, not wanting to confuse him further. “When you were engaged to Lady Florence” I elaborated, waiting to ensure that he still remembered this particular fact before continuing. “Did you… that is to say…” I rarely found myself flustered like this, particularly in front of Mr. Wooster, but I had noticed a disturbing trend as it occurred more and more frequently. “Were you in love with her?”

It was not the impression I had gotten in watching the two of them interact, but then again I was unsure if I’d ever actually seen Mr. Wooster in love, perhaps he had a way of showing it that other men didn’t.

With a small snort of laughter, Mr. Wooster made a motion as if he were about to shake his head, but I moved quickly to stop him, pressing both palms quite firmly against his temples. I withdrew again quickly once the desired effect had been achieved. “No Jeeves, I was not. Honestly, I have no idea why I didn’t ask you to get me out of it sooner.” I watched him smile in amusement, “I suppose a part of me was curious as to why you didn’t proverbially ‘shoot her down’ when I first raised the subject of our engagement.”

I didn’t have an answer, at least not one I could tell him.

Of course, I had never intended to allow Mr. Wooster to marry Lady Florence, he knew that and so did I. So, what Mr. Wooster was really asking was why I chose to go about the whole operation behind his back.

He studied my expression carefully then frowned. “But that’s not what this is about is it?” His tone was one of genuine concern now, and I knew he could read the distress in my eyes. He’d developed rather a knack for reading my expressions over the course of the past six months while we were in America.

I could see his mind turning, reflecting on my words and he tried to puzzle his way through to the answer.

“The doctor suggested that you should rest sir.” I didn’t want us to linger on the subject. Mr. Wooster had already moved on from it, and it was time that I did the same.

“I’m going to have to think very seriously about your future.”

I froze, a feeling of intense alarm cooling the blood in my veins. The words were spoken out of context, but they still elicited the same chill and terror. Realising that I’d given myself away, I waited silently to see what Mr. Wooster would say next, turning my head away so that I would not be able to read the reply in his eyes. Praise from Mr. Wooster I enjoyed, criticism I could manage, but pity was a mark of failure.

“I should never have said that Jeeves.” A smooth, uncalloused hand brushed over my own, the one that I had unconsciously left lingering on the side of the bed. “I was angry that you’d acted against my orders, and humiliated because Florence had ended it in front of everyone at the party, but I never meant what I said to you on those stairs.”

No matter how hard I tried to fight it, I could feel myself falling in love with him all over again.

“Jeeves I’d be dead, or as good as, in a week without you.” He chuckled, “And you know that better than anyone. Last time you left me I ended up burning down a cottage.”

“Technically Mr. Brinkley burned down your cottage” I reminded him stiffly, but Mr. Wooster didn’t seem particularly bothered by this. His hand brushed mine again, and this time it settled loosely over my fingers.

With tentative and fearful nerves, I lifted my middle digit to rest over his little finger. A small and deliberate action that neither of us commented on.

“Do you want to know something funny Jeeves?” He asked, the words echoing in the small huff of laughter he often expressed when nervous.

I tilted my head to one side enquiringly, knowing that he knew what it meant.

“Back in New York… The women there had such a fascination with you. Do you remember?”

I did.

“I vaguely recall some interested parties sir.” I wasn’t entirely certain where Mr. Wooster was going with this particular train of thought, although seventeen possible thoughts did jump to mind.

He swallowed, closing his eyes, and taking a deep breath before opening them again.

My seventeen possible thoughts decreased down to just eight.

“At first I thought the whole thing was a bit of a laugh, but then as it kept on… I found it was bothering me more and more. And I realised Jeeves…”

Three possible thoughts.

“…I’m frightened of losing you as well.”

The tension was relieved from my shoulders as the least stressful of Mr. Wooster’s possible conclusions was drawn.

“One of these days you’ll want to get married no doubt and toddle off to raise your own family. It had never really occurred to me before… I mean I know you’ve had some understandings with women in the past, but… I don’t know.” There was clear and unabashed confusion on Mr. Wooster’s face, as he tried to muddle his way through an incomplete puzzle, entirely unaware that there were pieces missing.

Knowing of just one single truth I could part with, I turned my hand, pressing my own palm to his. I allowed myself one indulgence, running my thumb along the top of his knuckles to sooth his distress. “For as long as you wish for me to remain in your service I will.” I held his gaze, ensuring that my expression reflected one of unwavering conviction.

His hand shifted, closing fully around my own. I felt my own hand respond unprompted to his advance, but we went no further.

I could see that Mr. Wooster was tired, and this conversation was beginning to waver on a precipice, if we fell now then there would be no return. I drew back my hand, feeling Mr. Wooster’s own grip slacken as he released me.

I knew now that Mr. Wooster did not yet know what he thought of me. We both understood that there was something stronger than the usual relationship between a valet and his master, but where the line fell was murky water. My own feelings were clear to me, but I was content to be his friend.

Mr. Wooster needed time, perhaps he needed more time than this lifespan would allow, but I was willing to wait, however long it took.


End file.
